


Darkness Alone Is Worshipful

by Vulgarweed



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Dark, Dom/sub, M/M, Manipulation, Seduction, Worship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-17
Updated: 2014-02-17
Packaged: 2018-01-12 18:59:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1195941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vulgarweed/pseuds/Vulgarweed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He is the proud King of an arrogant race - but there is still one who can bring him to his knees.</p><p>Written for Porn Battle XV. Prompts: smoke, gold, rise</p>
            </blockquote>





	Darkness Alone Is Worshipful

The reek of the burning of the White Tree in the grand new temple at Armenelos suffused the city for more than seven days, and it was sufficient to drive weaker men mad. 

But the scent was not so foul to Ar-Pharazôn's senses. It was potent and thick, and the flames burned uncannily bright and long. Dark shapes took form and wing above the dome of the Temple in the surly sable clouds. Wood, flesh – all the same to the One who presided within, always insisting the sacrifice was for Another much greater than himself, the god of the fertile darkness.

The King approached the throne room with great trepidation and hope, seeking the one who had once come as supplicant and prisoner. A hostage upon the good will of the mighty Númenoreans, he had said, and a proof of my own. The time before his arrival was so long ago, another age of the world it may have been. 

Annatar paced the inner circle of his chamber, fair and fell at once in his robes of red and black. He still bowed his head to Pharazôn, still murmured his name with the rolled syllable of sovereignty, but there was a hint of mockery in it now. 

“Ah, my King,” he said. “Welcome.”

“My Lord,” said Ar-Pharazôn, bowing his head. Long graceful fingers caressed his head and beard, and the ring of gold burned his cheek.

Though he dwelled immense wealth, Annatar wore little adornment – a sharp circlet of black iron, and that ring – simple and perfect, heavy and bright. The scent of smoke hung about him; acrid was the taste of his kisses, like the smoke of the burning Tree that brought visions.

“My love,” said Annatar, the words falling to the floor of his bedchamber like discarded silks. “You will own lands uncounted and riches unimagined, and you covet this silly little ring of mine? A sentimental token of my own conquests, so insignificant compared to the plunder you shall reap?”

Ar-Pharazôn was on his knees, and anyone else who saw him thus, he would have consigned to the flames at once. But for Annatar, his conduit to the deathless dark – anything. Annatar who had come to his bed at first lithe and lissome like a concubine boy, and now towered over him, rising in might, growing in his strength as he bent the King to his will with flattery and pleasure.

Ar-Pharazôn sucked at the finger that bore the ring – licking, supplicant, daring to touch it with the tip of his tongue just to feel the burst of burning ache in his mouth, searing his lips like the spices of Harad, calling him back to suck more.

Annatar gave a little moan, well-pleased. “I have pledged my love to Men with rings nine times,” he said coldly. “Would you have me be false a tenth?”

Ar-Pharazôn nearly wept. He leaned forward between Annatar's knees and pressed his forehead against that fair, muscular belly. “Your cruelty is surpassed by none, my Lord.”

“Oh,” Annatar laughed. “It is far surpassed by One, I assure you. And you shall live to meet Him, in long ages of the world to come, when you have vanquished all of His enemies and your own.”

“You will always belong to Him, my Lord. Never to one such as I,” Ar-Pharazôn murmured, half to himself.

“All the known lands and all the worlds of earth and sky will belong to you. You belong to me, and I to Him. That will suffice.”

“It will, my Lord,” Ar-Pharazôn said, smoke burning his eyes, and the scent of Annatar, lava and steel, sweat and smoke and the sweet poppy of dreams, filling his nose. He began to lap obediently at the head of Annatar's member, red and tall and proud, and heard a little hum of pleasure from far above him. Sucking and licking, he worshipped, craving the wild shame of it, the clever hands in his long hair pushing him down, down into the eyewatering service of his Lord.

“Build me a Temple,” he'd said, and Ar-Pharazôn had done. “Build me a castle of the sea to fill the Western vassals with terror,” he'd said, and Ar-Pharazôn had done.

“Let the darkness take you and remake you,” Annatar had said, and Ar-Pharazôn had done. “Give yourself to the flames,” Annatar had not yet said, but if he did, Ar-Pharazôn would see it done, as he tugged at Annatar's burning, aching flesh with hands and mouth and let himself be used like a painted woman of the city square. Rising he was too, in between his thighs, and he would have to abase and beg much more before his master would deign to touch him and relieve him.

So accustomed was he to that golden leash of desire that unmanned him so, he was stunned beyond speaking when Annatar lay back on his high iron bower and summoned his servant atop him, spreading his thighs and offering himself. “You would . . . you would suffer me to . . . take you in that way?”

“I _demand_ it,” Annatar said, and his hand clenched at Ar-Pharazôn's throat in a manner that was light and soft yet devoid of all tenderness. “Prove your worth.”

“Again, my Lord?”

“Always. Every night you must prove your worth. Can you withstand me? Can you bear the heat of my fire? Will you burn to ash or rise in glory?”

Ar-Pharazôn the Golden must rise to the challenge, and he gave himself to the flame of Annatar's body, thrusting against the agonizing pain he felt with every stab, opening his ears to Annatar's triumphant cries of ecstasy and shutting his heart to every pulse of pain and fear and regret for the snares of gold that bound him to the flames and the night.


End file.
